Slummin' in Paradise
by Jake Nickleby
Summary: As Laszlo approaches graduation, he learns that there's more to life than his spotless reputation, and goes along with the college way of fun. But when he's in charge of setting a good example for his cousin, his choices aren't always responsible ones.
1. Born With a Paintbrush in His Hand

Disclaimer: All characters and events related to _Meet the Robinsons_ are owned by William Joyce and Walt Disney Animated Studios.

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><p>Currently looking for Cover Art commissions.<p>

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><p><span>Prologue: Born With a Paintbrush in His Hand<span>

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><p>Ever since he was a little boy, Laszlo knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. His father claimed that he was born with a paintbrush in his hand. Throughout his entire childhood, Laszlo was always dressed in a smock and goggles, and his bright red hair was smeared with bright acrylic paint at the end of each day (much to his mother's exasperation, who spent a good amount of time trying to wash it out before bedtime).<p>

His parents would never see the end of it. It started with finger paint, during his toddler years. Then eventually, the tempera paint evolved into watercolor, then to pastel, and then finally, his favorite medium, the acrylic.

The location of his artwork also seemed to have expanded. From his bedroom walls, to his furniture, and then to the (surprisingly ordinary) use of paper. He even experimented with one of his sister's dresses, but a two-year-old Tallulah was not so keen on this particular episode.

Because of that last incident, it led his parents to the following four steps: One, purchase a stock full of canvases for him to use instead of his bedroom walls... or his sister's dresses... Two, turning one of the former station rooms (way back when the mansion was the Anderson Observatory) into his very own art gallery. Three, taking biyearly field trips to the museum. And four, enrolling him in community classes during the summer.

Then came the day he completed high school and enrolled into the one school that had been on his mind since the age of four: The Art Academy of Todayland. This was the place that would open so many opportunities for him. This was the platform that would help him launch off his art career. This was the foundation of where he would make a name for himself.

For the next three and a half years, Laszlo absorbed himself in his education. From learning the various techniques of pencil drawing, to mastering the craft of mural design. Now at the age of twenty-two, Laszlo was just a month and a brush stroke away from requiring the skills to obtain any profession he desired. But after having nearly four years of time go by...

_A person is hardly the same person that he was when he had started._

Ever since he was a little boy, Laszlo knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. But as he approached his college graduation, he was not so sure anymore.

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><p>End of Prologue<p>

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><p><span>Author's Note<span>: Back in the summer and autumn of 2007, I was inspired by three songs: "High and Dry" by Radiohead, "Photograph" by Jamie Cullum (who also happened to have covered "High and Dry"), and the titular track "Slummin' in Paradise" by Mandy Moore. This was the result.

I also derived the line, "His father claimed that he was born with a paintbrush in his hand" from "His father said he was born with a pencil in his hand", about an American author and illustrator. Do you know who?

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><p>29 November 2011<p> 


	2. The Only Living Boy in Todayland

For disclaimer on _Meet the Robinsons_, please refer to chapter one.

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><p><span>Warning<span>: This chapter contains brief mild language. Please read cautiously if you are sensitive to this type of content.

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><p>Currently looking for Cover Art commissions.<p>

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><p><span>Chapter One: The Only Living Boy in Todayland<span>

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><p>Six-twenty in the morning, and Laszlo found himself pounding his fist into the snooze button of his alarm clock for the third time.<p>

"Ten more minutes," he murmured to himself, as he rolled over in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. "I can afford ten minutes... mm, maybe twenty..." But then five minutes later, he realized that he was fully awake.

He reasoned that it was best to get up before the alarm blared through the darken room again. The one thing that bothered him about getting up in the morning was that unnerving beeping, which would continue to set off every ten minutes with each time he hit that greatest button ever invented.

Finally, Laszlo lifted himself off of his mattress. Without the aid of a light source, he walked over to his closet and pulled out what seemingly looked like some khaki pants and a spring green-colored button-up shirt... though it could have been yellow for all he knew, straining his eyes to examine the detail in the dark.

Shrugging, he stripped away the tee shirt he wore overnight and replaced it with the dress shirt, buttoning it from bottom to top. The elected pair of khakis were then draped over his shoulder. As he struggled to pull off his pajama pants while hopping his way to the bathroom, Laszlo tossed the tee shirt that he had all balled up in his hand into the dirty hamper.

Once his pants were successfully off, he did the same motion as he had done with the shirt, and, after flinging the khakis off of his shoulder, he slipped the pants on. Stumbling out of the bathroom, Laszlo snatched up a brown belt and a stray brown Oxford shoe off the floor. Quickly, he strung the belt through the belt loops on his pants, and put on the lone right shoe.

"_Damn!_" he cursed under his breath. "Where's my other shoe?" Turning over some discarded garments that unexplainably got dumped on the floor (usually the young man was more organized with his belongings), the matching shoe was unveiled. Multitasking with putting on the other shoe and snatching his brown leather bookbag from his desk chair, Laszlo rushed out of his bedroom. He glanced at his watch: six-fourty. _Stellar!_ He had an extra twenty minutes before he had to leave for his morning class. He actually had time to grab a decent breakfast.

Making his way down to the kitchen, he ran into his cousin's wife, Franny, who was cooking up something that smelled delcious on the stove. She craned her neck over her shoulder to smile at him.

"Mornin', Laz!" she greeted cheerfully, wiping her hand on the rose-printed apron that she wore over a pale blue blouse and tan skirt. "Want some scrambled eggs?"

"Yeah, maybe some," he responded with a weary smile as he sat down on one of the kitchen stools, grabbing a slice of buttered toast that sat on the nearby counter. "Thanks, auntie."

Even though Laszlo's father's brother, Bud had adopted Cornelius- technically making him and the inventor extrodinairre cousins- the dynamics of the family's relationships were treated differently. At twenty years, ten months and four days, the gap between their ages helped create that distinction, and so Cornelius and Franny had always seemed more like an uncle and aunt to Laszlo. So that's how he always referred to them, and always referred to their son, Wilbur as his cousin (but really, who ever introduced a person as their "first cousin once remove"? It was such a moutthful!).

"So how are your classes going?" Franny asked, turning around to face Laszlo at the counter with the egg-filled frying pan in hand.

"Alright," he responded, probably a little too flatly, as he watched her scoop out the yellow protein clumps onto a free plate. "Thanks," he noted of the breakfast, then went on to elaborate his answer. "But if I can be honest, I'm ready to be done," he sighed. "I just want that diploma in my hand so I can actually _do_ something with my life."

Franny patted his shoulder with her free hand. "You will," she said with a sincere, understanding look in her expression. "It can be frustrating now, but it'll all work out in the end. Just keep at it." She offered him a smile. "And you know you can always ask for help when you need it." Laszlo accepted the smile with a tired one of his own. "I know," he said meekly. "Thanks, Franny."

"Anytime, pal," she replied with a wink, turning back around to place the pan back down on the stove. He picked up the pitcher of orange juice that was beside the plate of toast, and poured it into an glass empty glass. Suddenly, Wilbur bursted through the kitchen door with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Hi, Mom!" he rushed, snatching up the glass of orange juice that Laszlo had just poured for himself. The thirteen-year-old gulped it down before the older male had the chance to even react. Sighing, he grabbed a plain, white mug and poured himself some coffee instead. Looked like it was going to be another long day.

From his periperal vision, he noticed Wilbur wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his navy raglan shirt before running back towards the kitchen door, opening it just enough to poke his head through.

"C'mon, Tallulah!" he shouted out the door. "We're going to school, not prom! Ditch the high heels and put on some sneakers that will get us to the bus on time!" He turned away from the door, and continued on his original path through the kitchen. "For once," he added in a murmur, more to himself than to anyone else.

Subsequently, there was a faint and muffled, "You don't get a second chance to make a first impression!" coming down the hall somewhere. Tallulah would always say that whenever someone criticized how long it took for her to get dressed.

Meanwhile, Franny placed a plate, topped with all of the eggs and toast she prepared, next to Laszlo's right. "Will, come eat something before you leave," she said.

"Sure thing, Mom," the young teenager obeyed, taking a seat on the empty stool underneath the counter where his food waited. "But I've only got ten minutes to scarf it all down."

"You know," his mother suggested, while she loaded the used cooking ware into the dishwasher, "You _could_ get up ten minutes earlier so you wouldn't have to rush to the bus stop every morning."

Wilbur swallowed the bite of eggs he had masticated before speaking. "Well, it's not _my_ fault that Buster flooded my bathroom by clogging the drainpipes with Grandpa's teeth." He stopped for a moment to take a bite of toast. "It's bad enough I have to make sure Tallulah's ready on a regular basis, but when I have to share her bathroom...?"

Franny gave him an unimpressed look when he said, "it's not my fault". He consumed the last bit of toast he had in his mouth, and admitted, "Okay, I shouldn't have taught Buster how to flush the toilet... and then let Buster drink from the toilet while wearing Grandpa's teeth in the first place... But that's not my point!" Franny moved from the kitchen to the dining room with her own meal, just as the kitchen door swung open. With her school books in hand and handbag strapped over her shoulder, Tallulah waltzed in, wearing a frilly dress that made her look like a baby doll.

What did she call that outfit again? Laszlo quizzed himself. Oh, yeah, a lolita. She had been testing that fashion recurrently for the past month. Today, the one she wore had vertical black and white stripes and red ribbons for the trimming. The clicking on the floor verified Wilbur's claim of Tallulah wearing high heels.

"Mo-o-orni-i-ing!" she sang, perching herself on the stool to Laszlo's left. Opposite of her, the school books and bag she carried was now stacked neatly on the counter.

"About time," Wilbur mumbled, slumped over his plate as he shoveled the remaining half of the eggs down his throat.

"Well, _excuse _me," the young woman remarked, picking up a glass of orange juice. "What is it that you always say, Laz? 'You can't rush art'?" Wilbur snorted, cramming the last chunk of toast in his mouth. Tallulah ignored him, taking a quick sip of her juice. "Well, art for me is my clothes. I can't be like you, Wilbur, and wear the same style of worn-out high tops and faded jeans everyday."

"Hey!" Wilbur cried, holding his foot up above the counter. "These kind of Chucks have been around for a hundred-twenty years! Why don't you ask Mister Taylor if these babies will ever go out of style?"

"Wilbur, put your foot down," Laszlo muttered under his breath. "You know your mom's going to complain if she sees you like that." Wilbur did so without saying anything, and Laszlo took another sip of his coffee.

"Six-fifty-five," Wilbur warned Tallulah as he stood up to dump his dishes in the sink.

"That's five whole minutes before we need to leave," she pointed out. "Calm down, cousin." Taking another quick sip of juice before adding, "Five minutes is plenty of time for me to eat breakfast _and_ meet out front for the bus."

"Yeah, in those shoes?" the youngest of the three pointed to the sparkly black pumps with a little bow on each pair.

"You mean _these_," she positioned the toe outward, as if showing it on display. "The ones where I _beat_ you at flag football last September?"

"Ouch!" Wilbur feigned hurt. "Did you _have_ to bring that up?"

Tallulah shrugged. "_You_ started it," she retorted before popping her slice of toast in her mouth.

"Whatever," the boy dismissed. He reached over to Tallulah and pulled her backwards by her arm. "Let's just go."

With the piece of toast still stuck in her mouth, the young woman nearly fell clean off her seat. Resisting Wilbur's pull, she stretched her arms out to snatch up her books and handbag before letting herself drawn out of the kitchen by her cousin.

Laszlo sighed, taking the last sip of his coffee. _"Hey, Laszlo, how are you doing?"_ said to himself in mock role play. _"Oh, not bad. I've been better. How are you?" _

"Who are you talking to, champ?" Laszlo turned around. It was Uncle Bud.

"Oh, just thinkin' out loud," the red-haired man brushed off. He pushed his plate aside and stood up. "I should probably head out now."

"Wait!" Uncle Bud called as he picked up his bag and walked towards the room's exit. "Laz?"

He turned around. "Yeah, Uncle Bud?"

The seventy-two-year-old man scratched his head. "Have you seen my teeth around anywhere? I've been missin' them since Sunday evening... Maybe even that afternoon."

Laszlo tried his best to hide his disgusted shock, before responding quickly and nonchalantly, "Nope, haven't. Sorry. I'll keep an eye out for 'em." Then hightailed as fast as he could out of the kitchen. "Have a nice day, Uncle Bud!"

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><p>End of Chapter One<p>

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><p><span>Author's Note<span>: I wasn't going to post this chapter until later, but you know what? Today is my birthday. I deserve to treat myself to an update. Plus, tomorrow is William Joyce's birthday and Walt Disney's was on Monday. Excellent!

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><p>10 December 2011<p> 


	3. 7 Days to Change Your Life

Disclaimer: The following chapter contains inspiration from _Psychology: Concepts and Application (Second Edition)_ by Jeffery S. Nevid, _Contemporary Art Therapy with Adolescents _by Shirley Riley, and _The Art Therapy Sourcebook_ by Cathy Malchiodi. For disclaimer on _Meet the Robinsons_, please refer to chapter one.

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><p><span>Warning<span>: This chapter contains brief mild language and mention of psychological terms concerning drugs, sexual behavior, eating habits, and stress. Please read cautiously if you are sensitive to this type of content.

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><p>Currently looking for Cover Art commissions.<p>

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><p><span>Chapter Two: 7 Days to Change Your Life<span>

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><p>Laszlo yawned as he sat tiredly in the lecture hall, waiting for his seven-thirty class to start. He glanced down at his watch- which read "<em>7:25 A.M.<em>"- while other students were filling into the empty seats. He leaned against the heel of his hand, with the elbow propped up on the desk. It was way too early for Psychology, but he really needed to get his General Education credits finished, and the morning class fitted best with his schedule this semester.

Something hit him in the back of his head. "Sorry!" a voice called. Looking over his shoulder, Laszlo saw a black canvas bag being carried along the row of seats behind him. Rubbing the bruised spot with the pad of his thumb as the person tucked away the bag.

Long, silky hair appeared abruptly in his face, causing him to jump slightly at the sudden emergence. It was apparent that the person's hair hung over the shoulders, as the person had leaned forward to level with Laszlo in the lower row.

"You okay?" the person behind the hair asked.

Laszlo dropped his hand down. "Yeah, I'm cool."

The person sat up, out of Laszlo's view. "Sorry again, about the bag."

"It's fine, don't worry about it," he reassured as the instructor, Mr. Oldenburg, called for the students' attention, wanting to start the class lecture.

"We'll be having a short quiz," Mr. Oldenburg announced. "So if you would please put your books away, and pull out a piece of paper and a writing utensil..." A whole bustle of noise erupted as the students went to follow orders. The room quieted down notably after a few minutes, as the students waited for further instructions. There were a few people in various places around the room, one of which came from behind Laszlo.

"Shit,"came the voice in a whisper. "_Shit!_" More rustling, then the person asked another in hushed manner, "Do you have a pencil I could borrow?"

Laszlo felt a spare black ball-point pen he had in his pants pocket, so he tugged it out and held it behind him.

"_Thank you, thank you, thank you!_" the whispered voice acknowledged, accepting the pen from his hand.

"The questions covered are from the textbook," the instructor clarified. "So if you're caught up with the reading from the past couple of weeks, this should be fairly easy." The class settled as he prepared the overhead projector. "Ready?" he notified.

All the students positioned themselves over their papers placed strategically over their desks, pen or pencil pressed firmly in their grasp. Mr. Oldenburg revealed the questions on the screen. "Begin!"

Laszlo surveyed each of the questions before attempting to answer any given problem. From section four, eleven, and fifteen, Laszlo noted. Alright, he was ready to start.

_Question One: What kind of drugs are widely used in treating anxiety and insomnia but that can become addictive when used for extended periods of time?_

Chapter four, he thought. When consciousness is altered through drugs...

_ Answer: Tranquilizers, a class of depressants._

Taking a moment to read over his answer, he moved onto the next question. Hmm, it was on sexual responses and behaviors.

_Question Two: Regarding the human sexual response cycle, write the term that fits the following description: "increased myotonia and further increases in vasocongestion"._

Laszlo mentally rolled his eyes when he heard a handful of freshmen snicker. Well, I know what question _they're_ working on, he thought to himself. Not that he should care what everyone else was doing. He knew the answer, so he minded his own business and wrote it down.

_ Answer: The plateau phase._

A-a-and last question.

_Question Three: At what point does stress lead to distress?_

Health psychology and stress-related issues. He reviewed this section the night before.

Oh, yeah. He got this in the bag.

_ Answer: When the stress for a person increases to a level that taxes the ability to cope._

There was a sea of shuffled paper sounding in the room, as each student passed their quizzes from left-to-right and back-to-front. Laszlo followed the same motion when his turn came in line. Once Mr. Oldenburg compiled the stack of paper together, the lecture portion began.

This morning's lecture was fortunately not all boring, since Laszlo found the topic rather interesting. Pulling out his laptop computer from his book bag, Laszlo began recording his notes from Oldenburg's lesson on the psychological reasoning behind human behavior and motivation.

"Leon Festinger and J. Merrill Carlsmith theorized that the _cognitive dissonance_ is a state of internal tension brought about by conflicting attitudes and behavior," Mr. Oldenburg's voice rung through the lecture hall. "That the _cognitive dissonance theory_ is the belief that people are motivated to resolve discrepancies between their behavior and their attitudes or beliefs."

Hmm, Laszlo thought, a person can reduce their cognitive dissonance... Changing their attitudes or beliefs to fit their behavior.

Laszlo typed out a few examples. _Smoker- believes smoking will deteriorate his health. Continues to smoke. May reduce _cognitive dissonance_: (1) altering behavior (quit smoking), (2) altering belief (smoking isn't really harmful), or (3) using form of rationalization to explain inconsistency ("family history doesn't show health problems concerning smoking")._

Mr. Oldenburg started to touch on the subject of how the lateral and ventromedial hypothalamus parts of the brain affects human's drive to feel hungry and eat. The class was getting hyped up to see the image of the laboratory rat whose ventromedial hypothalamus- the signal that told the brain to stop eating- was destroyed, causing it to excessively eat until it became severely obese. Eventually, the clock struck nine-thirty, and to the class' disappointment, they had to wait until the next meeting to see the fatty rat's gnarly photograph.

The class started to file out of the room, and Laszlo stood up to eventually do the same. A hand touched his hand. He looked up to see the person who sat behind him in class. Yep, there was that hair that scared the bejeezus out of him, and the canvas bag that had hit him in the head, which was now slung over her shoulder. The girl offered a soft smile, and held out his pen. A greenish-brown eye winked at him before she took off.

"Hey, do you know who that is?" Laszlo asked the third-year student who stood to his left, pointing up to the girl walking up the stairs towards the exit.

"Uh, who?" the guy asked dumbly, trying to follow Laszlo's direction.

"The girl wearing the faded jean jacket," he clarified.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Her? Uh, I don't know her name. But I think she's in the mural design class this semester."

"The one at twelve-thirty on Mondays and Wednesdays," Laszlo asked for insight, "Or the one at five-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

"U-u-um..." thought. "Twelve-thirty, with instructor Edward Jackson."

"Huh," Laszlo mused as he shoved his laptop back into his bag. "Well, thanks..."

"Ben!" he answered with a smile, which Laszlo thought was a little goofy looking.

"Yeah," Laszlo responded tonelessly. "Thanks, Ben."

"No prob, man!" Ben expressed excitedly, waving to him.

Strapping his bag across his shoulder, the young man strolled out of the classroom. He pulled out a green apple from his bag and headed to the library. Since he had an hour to kill before his Art Therapy class. Laszlo figured he could catch up on some extra research for his thesis project. Hopefully, the book he wanted to use was still shelved.

Laszlo scanned the rows of books, searching for the particular texts he desired to read. Let's see, he thought. Ah! There it was. Shirley Riley. _Contemporary Art Therapy with Adolescents_. This was just the source he needed for his thesis. Now if only he could find...

Laszlo bent his knees slightly to level with the lower bookshelves to get a better view of the titles just below his eye level. Glancing at the book spines until he spotted _The Art Therapy Sourcebook_. Pulling both printed materials from the shelves, the young Robinson man briskly walked out of the aisle with the books in arm.

He stopped once he reached the end of the checkout line, fumbling for his student identification card in the back pocket of his pants while he waited. Successfully retrieving his card by the time he moved to the front of the line, Laszlo rented his items and exited the library. The weather was too nice to be cooped up in the dimly-lit building today. Might as well soak up some sun rays while hittin' the books, right? Laszlo reasoned as he strolled to an empty bench in the courtyard.

"Ah," he sighed when he relaxed into his spot. Getting himself situated, he opened one of the books and read, "There is no place in society where remedial relationships and creative therapies are more valuable than in these programs designed to rescue adolescents from a future of failure."

Hmm... A future of failure? It was rather strange choice of words, especially when such a statement conflicted with his family's beliefs. As Auntie Billie would say, "From failing, you learn". But Laszlo negotiated that the author's interpretation of "future of failure" meant that of a person who has no opportunity to cope and connect with others and instead lead to a path of destruction. Still, interesting choice of words.

Pausing for a moment, Laszlo took out his laptop from his bag, and using the computer's touchscreen tablet mode, jotted down his thoughts with his stylus. He wrote notes for the few more chapters before attempting to read through the other book, but then he heard this name being called from a distance. Lifting his head up, Laszlo saw a tall young man waving at him as he approached Laszlo's location.

"Pascal!" he called, standing up from his spot to give his friend a handshake.

"How's it going, man?" Pascal asked brightly.

"Ah, you know," Laszlo started, shrugging off his weariness. "It's going."

"Yeah, I hear ya," his blonde friend concurred, yet still holding onto the large, toothy smile he always had on. "So, what'cha up to today?"

"Just class," the Robinson admitted. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm starved!" Pascal said in his usual comedic voice, but his shining green eyes was evidence of just how hungry he really was. "So I'm going to hit up the cafeteria before class." He jabbed his thumb behind him, pointing to a general space of his destination. "Wanna come?"

"Yeah, sure," he agreed, packing up his books and laptop in his bag.

The pair strode through the main quad, discussing their term's project for the Art Therapy class they shared together. The conversation led into nothing of particular importance, until Pascal realized he was doing most of the talking.

"Hey, you sure you're alright man?" the blonde asked, after noticing how quiet Laszlo had gotten. "You seem kind of down today." By this time, they had reached the front doors to the cafeteria. Pascal got a hold of the handle first, and propped the door wide enough to let the both of them in. Naturally, Laszlo thanked him before he confessed.

"Yeah, I mean," Laszlo sighed. "Could this month go _any_ faster?" he asked sarcastically. They were now standing in front of the menu selection.

Pascal seemed to catch on, scanning for the lunch special. "Oh, I know what you mean. I cannot _wait_ for graduation!"

"These past two years _alone_ were grueling..." Laszlo mused, as Pascal decided on a slice of pizza.

"Well, you know what I think?" Pascal proposed, taking his selection up to the cash register. "All you need is seven days to change your life." His mischievous smile creeping up on his lips. "I think it's time to kick up our feet and have some fun!"

"Oh, yeah?" Laszlo replied, returning the sly smile with one of his own. But as Pascal paid for his meal, Laszlo prompted him with a question: "And how do you think we are going to accomplish that?"

"Simple!" Pascal exclaimed as he casually strolled to a vacant table.

"You forgetting something?" the redhead quizzed. "The project? We've only got another four weeks to finish it."

That statement seemed to not phase Pascal at all. "Got plans this weekend?"

"Well, no-" Laszlo started, but once the world left his lips, his friend cut him off.

"Then we're set," Pascal declared. "You and me. Friday night. Irish Pub."

There was a pause, and his friend had expected, Laszlo looked dubious. "The two of us?" he asked uncertainly. "_Guy_ time?" That was less of a question and more of a sarcastic statement. He leaned back into his chair. "What's Zowie up to?" the redhead asked casually, but the pair both knew it was test.

Like clockwork, Pascal always tried to play it cooly. "Aw, can't a guy just hang out with his best bud for a night without him wondering why his lady isn't tagging along?"

Laszlo simply raised an eyebrow, which was enough of a gesture to get his friend to confess the _real_ reason why Pascal would give up an evening with his girlfriend. Pascal rarely invited Laszlo to hang out with him outside of school, especially during the weekends.

The both of them were like any other college students, after all. When not going to classes, Pascal would be working his part-time job or studying. Any extra time he had, he would want to spend it with Zowie, who attended Midtown University.

Laszlo himself spent most of his time studying and painting. He didn't work any part-time jobs, thanks to scholarships and the fortune he earned from inventing the Paint Ray covered his tuition, and living at the Robinson household had saved him the need for an apartment. Though despite having his funds covered for him, he barely had a social life to speak of...

His friend wiped away his comical demeanor and stared him straight in the eye. "Yeah, alright," he said in all seriousness. "She dumped me."

Laszlo stared at him, shocked. "Oh..." he responded slowly. "I'm so sorry-"

Then Pascal bursted with laughter. "Nah, I'm just kidding!"

"Ugh!" Laszlo exasperatedly slumped in his seat and rolled his eyes.

"Sorry!" the sniggering boy apologized, wiping away the tears that formed in his eyes. "Oh, but you should've seen your face!"

"But no, really. Zowie's got family visiting from Shreveport," he explained. "So you and I- we're goin' to be bachelors for the whole weekend!"

"Except you're _not_ a bachelor..." Lazslo muttered, but Pascal seemed to ignore him as he began to talk over him.

"You and me," he repeated. "Friday night." He jabbed his fore finger towards Laszlo as he said each sentence. His other fingers grasped the crust of the eaten pizza slice, making him appear plainly ridiculous about the whole situation. "Irish Pub."

"A-and Irish Pub," Laszlo finished with him, once he realized that he wasn't going to win this argument. "Yeah."

Pascal ate the remaining piece of the pizza crust. His face scrunched up in disgust for a moment. "Y'know, this pizza nearly isn't as good as Art's," he admitted.

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><p>End of Chapter Two<p>

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><p><span>Author's Note<span>: I meant to finish and post this several times in late December, then again right after New Years. Then several times after that. Obviously every attempt never happened. I didn't think it would take me _this_ long, but as this is the first update I've made all year, I'm still entitled to say... Happy New Year, everyone!

Also, did you catch the easter eggs in this chapter? Hint: two of them are names based on people, one of them is the name of a book character, and one of them is a place- all of which are referenced to William Joyce... but now I'm just giving it away!

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><p>26 August 2012<p> 


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